Mädchen
by Team Bonet
Summary: Aya is paired with Millennium's Frank Black on a New York case, while Birman finds herself drawn to the murders.


Author's Note:

This story was originally written as a straight Weiss Kreuz story, with _Millennium_'s Frank Black written as a Japanese investigator. For some odd, odd reason I thought no one would buy or read a Weiss Kreuz/Millennium cross-over. That was 1999. This is 2008 and I've uploaded a second version of the story I edited for inclusion in a _Millennium_ fan fiction archive. For those familiar with _Millennium_, this takes place anywhere between Season 1 and the middle of Season 2. For the Weiss Kreuz fans, this takes place during the original series.

* * *

"Give her the fruit of her hands, and let her own work praise her..."

-- Proverbs 31:31

* * *

The room shimmered and flashed as if a distant world within itself. Sharp shadows struck the walls and fled down the corridors outside. The light of a thousand cameras. Two men, bent, twisting their machines horizontal and vertical, firing off a rapid succession of blinding white flashes. A murmur rose around them, a sea of voices. A tall man nodding his head, talking in hushed tones to a companion. Two younger men stood by the door. Yellow tape filtered between them.

She arrived as the tall man stepped out, nodding to her in recognition.

The murmurs had grown more urgent, a babble of speculation cut short by the sharp photographic light. The man who had been speaking to the taller one saw her. He whispered a few words to the young man beside him and stepped forward.

He looked old, tired. His clothes seemed to crumble into him. Or maybe he seemed to crumble into them; to fade away into finely etched lines and folds. A wind breaker, creased jeans, washed out green eyes. He held out his hand to her, his face breaking into a smile. Tired, worried, but genuine.

"Hey, Birman, glad to see you."

She shook his hand with the soft smile of one that has been recognized and is comfortable. It was a firm shake.

"Hey yourself, Frank. Glad to see you could make it. Last time I talked to him, Bletch made it seem as if you were terrified of setting foot on an airplane to dear old New York."

"So did I. But we all decided I'd best stay here."

"I see. So you've brought Catherine and Jordan, huh?"

"I figured they needed a vacation. Jordan loves it here. She wants to take me skating."

He laughed, a soundless gesture she couldn't as much see as feel. The feeling subsided slowly, his eyes obscuring as he turned back towards the centre of the room, towards the photographers. He gestured to her, drawing her towards the centre. The photographers had stepped back, the click of their equipment receding down the hall. He crouched down beside a lump of white sheet, his eyes on hers. She didn't say a word, merely crouched down across from him, waiting.

"They found her a few hours ago. Five, at the least. A neighbour phoned the police."

He drew back the sheet and leaned back on his haunches. Birman's face

turned away for a moment, a spasm of pain and horror and pity thinning her lips. A young girl, her face swollen with bruises. Blood clung to her mouth and cheeks, matting her hair, forming a dark, grotesque mask around her livid, silent face.

"What happened?"

Frank drew the sheet over the girl's face again. The tall man had stepped back inside. Peter Watts. He folded his arms over his chest and looked down at the stark, white sheet. He spoke almost to himself.

"We don't know yet. Neighbour said she heard a loud noise. A fight,

probably. But she couldn't remember anything else. We'll just have to wait for the autopsy reports at this point."

Birman nodded, slowly. Her nerves were still on edge.

That girl, so young. So young...

She drew herself up and allowed Frank to guide her to the door. Peter walked out with them, nodding in an absent minded manner as a younger man passed him a cup of coffee.

"I'll call you when the autopsy reports come in, Birman," Frank said.

She heard his voice as if from a funnel. A faint rumble, tickling at her subconscious. His hand clapped her shoulder, exerting a warm, steady pressure. She could feel his sympathy, his understanding. He had a daughter. That young girl could have been anybody's daughter.

So young.

Birman reached out to pat his hand.

"Thanks."

* * *

The call came at three thirty in the afternoon. She took the telephone with her into the bathroom and sat on the lowered toilet seat as Frank gave her the details. Fractured spine, ruptures branching from the centre and towards the tips. Cracks along the skull. The blows hadn't killed her. She had bleed to death. Internal. Ruptured organs as her bones split. She lowered the receiver, Frank's voice audible even as she gazed across at the white washed walls of the bathroom.

"Are you gonna be all right, Birman?"

She shook her head. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine. Listen, Frank, there's

someone I'd like you to meet. Do you think you could meet me downtown, corner of 7th, near the department store?" She knew he wouldn't say no. He was probably curious. He worked best alone, but she knew he trusted her. They settled on a time and she replaced the receiver. A faint, echoing ring escaped into the still air as she placed the telephone on the tiled floor.

Then she drew her knees below her chin and lowered her head.

* * *

The cars went by in a haze of colours and reflected sunlight. Rush hour. They crawled along the streets and coughed out exhaust fumes and expensive interiors and loud techno and the afternoon public radio news. Bombings. A dismantled parliament in Russia. Trains that crashed off Nepal. Birman pulled at her skirt and watched them crawl by. The sun beat down over everything, scorching her. Where was Frank? The young man beside her folded his arms over his chest, head lowered. Studying the asphalt, studying the cars.

Frank came after a crowd of high school boys. He made his way slowly along the street, hands pocketed, taking in everything, watching nothing in particular. He nodded at Birman. She pulled at her skirt again and motioned him inside a dimly lit restaurant. The young man followed them in silence, studying the ground as it melted from asphalt into metal and then wood and finally a rich, velvet carpet. He could see the stains running along the design. Birman slid into a booth and gestured for Frank to sit across from her. The young man sat at the edge, between them.

"It's hot as Hell out there," Birman said. A waitress approached them, and she waved her away. She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. "Well. Here we are then"

Frank's gazed at the young man in silence. He was younger than he had

expected. Asian, a round, pale face framed by bangs and two long sideburns that clung to his cheeks. Bright red hair. Lavender eyes. Probably contacts. He sat with his arms folded over his chest, drinking in Frank in turn. The older man knew what the younger must have been seeing. Crumbling clothes, washed out green eyes sunk in a net of wrinkles and lines and the thin set of his mouth. He felt old.

Birman coughed. "Frank Black, this is Aya Fujimiya. He works for us."

Aya noted that the man didn't seem perturbed by that term, ifor us/i. He merely held out a hand and broke into a faint smile. They shook hands briefly, quickly. Birman had leaned back in her seat, watching them. They didn't speak, merely sized each other up. She coughed again and edged out of her seat.

"I'll leave you two to get acquainted."

Frank's eyes flickered towards her. "You're leaving the case?"

She smiled faintly. She wasn't sure if he really understood. She hoped he did. His eyes flickered downward, then up towards her face again. Understanding her decision, if not her reasons. She patted his shoulder and made her way outside, her form disappearing in a sea of waiters and customers taking their seats.

"Birman told me about the girl. The spinal fractures. The cracks on the skull."

Frank leaned forward on the table, palms flat against the cold wood. "I know." There didn't seem to be anything else he could say. The young man was looking at him with a steady, unflinching gaze. Frank pinched his lips.

"She was found in her apartment. I suppose Birman told you that as well?"

"Yes. I don't see the point."

The older man leaned back on his seat. The young man had unfolded his arms, clasped them on the table. Seconds crawled by. Frank could feel a word forming in his lips, spilling into his eyes: Why? He wanted Birman to come back. He wanted someone to tell him how to speak to this man, this child. He cleared his throat.

"You think this is an isolated case?"

The young man shrugged. "Murder. Rage. A lover. A father, maybe. As gruesome as it may be, it says nothing."

"So you prefer to wait till the killer strikes again?"

"It would prove a definite pattern. At the moment, all we have is a dead girl, murdered in a brutal enough fashion. But nothing else." He leaned forward, lavender eyes bright in the artificial light spilling from a lamp made up of bottles. Green, brown, clear white. He thinned his lips. "Is there a reason behind this murder? Any reason for us to believe that it will happen again? We won't know until it happens again."

Frank narrowed his eyes. "If it happens in New York."

The young man leaned back, arms folding over his chest. "People are murdered every day at every hour everywhere, Mr. Black. We can't save them all."

* * *

Sandra Ordonez was tired. The SAT was slated to begin in less than three weeks. Stephan and Elliot had invited her over to study at Stephan's house. She had arrived at 8:00 am and stumbled out at...? She checked her clock. The digital face was blank. She cursed under her breath and shook her wrist. Nothing.

"Ah great. Damn thing dies at all the worst moments."

She walked on in a huff. She had spent her last eight dollars replacing the battery. Only three days ago. It was impossible. She turned a corner and decided that tomorrow, first thing in the morning, she was going to just buy a new clock. She should have done that ages ago.

"Hey."

The voice came from behind her. Sandra froze. She turned her face slowly to the left, fearing to see someone. The street behind her was empty. Suburban houses rose around her, nestled behind their high fences, curled roofs dipping down towards the ground. The criss-cross of telephone wires above her shivered against a purple, evening sky. She was alone. She took one step forward, the blood racing in her ears, her mind trying to calm her nerves. It wasn't far to her house. If she ran, she could make it.

If she ran.

She felt her feet leave the ground. Her body felt strangely light, her limbs shooting forward in momentum. She could feel her heart, beating much too hard, threatening to tear right out of her chest. She felt herself being lifted, panic filling her mouth. If she ran. If she was running. She felt her feet leave the ground and hang, suspended, above her shadow. She looked down in horror. Panic spilled down her cheeks. She couldn't see another shadow. Not yet.

It stepped up as she felt the world pull and wring within her. A scream rushing up her nerves and exploding behind her eyes. Purple sky spinning and exploding. World exploding. Her eyes exploding. She was screaming.

* * *

Aya crouched down and kept his eyes averted from everyone. Frank stood at the farthest end of the room, his hands buried in the pockets of his frayed, creased jeans. It was a girl. Young. Her eyes stared out at him in a haunted, empty scream. He replaced the sheet and stood up.

"Cracked spine," he heard Frank murmur, his voice a low, even rumble.

"Broken skull. Internal bleeding."

Frank's lips were set in a thin line. He gazed down at the stark, white sheet in silence. He felt a sickening, guilty pride well up inside of him. He hated himself for it. He wanted to believe that he had given some benefit to the young man's dismissal of the first victim. He knew he hadn't. The white sheet loomed large and unreal in his vision, and he knew that many more would follow.

Aya came to stand beside Frank and pushed back at his bangs. He seemed calm, but the older man could see the rage behind his eyes. Embarrassment. "So. You were right. I was wrong."

"This isn't about right or wrong, Aya. I wanted to be wrong."

Aya looked away, at the white sheet being lifted into a stretcher and at the photographers following the procession and their flashes bouncing off the walls of the girl's house. The parents were huddled in the kitchen, the father's limp arm circling the shoulders of the weeping mother. He brought his gaze back to Frank and thinned his lips.

"No. You wanted to be right."

* * *

The telephone woke her in the middle of the night. She lifted her head from the tangle of her pillow and covers and groped for it blindly in the dark. Her fingers wrapped around the receiver and she propped herself up on her elbows. Her back would have words with her about it in the morning.

"Birman here. Oh, Frank. Yeah, hi." She chuckled, glad that he couldn't smell her breath. "No, of course you're not bothering me. I love getting calls at..." She threw a glance at her beaming, digital alarm clock. "Two fifteen am. I get used to this after a while."

Frank laughed silently at his feet. The silence of his hotel room wrapped around him in a comfortable, cool cocoon. He didn't want to wake Catherine and Jordan. He could barely hear himself talk. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep."

"That makes two of us now." She rolled onto her back and pulled her

pillows behind her, propping herself up against the head of her bed.

"What's on your mind, Frank? Please tell me it's not the case..."

She heard him sigh. She couldn't be sure if it was meant as laughter or as resignation. "It's the case, yeah. I'm having a tough time here, Birman."

"Yeah, so I read. Five girls." She drew in a deep breath. She had read every single headline. Five smiling young girls. Five white sheets. "But still, it's strange to hear you say you're stumped. Not enough evidence?"

"No, nothing like that. It's that young man. Aya. He's... Birman, I can sense a lot of anger in him, resentment. Directed at me. He doesn't trust me. Doesn't want to trust me. Every time we find a new victim, I feel as if it's all my fault, the way he looks at me. I don't think I'm dealing very well with it."

Birman smiled. She had known Frank even before she had met Takatori, before she had joined Weiss Kreuz. Before she had all records of her

existence erased, given up on the FBI, gone underground with a group not even Frank knew much about; Millennium had not told him everything. But she knew him, knew him even before his little daughter had been born. He had called her when the little girl was little more than two, in the middle of the night. She could hear a baby crying as he paced, phone cradled against his free shoulder. What do I do? He wanted to know. She's so small. I'm afraid she'll break... Catherine says I'm worrying too much.

"I think you're worrying too much again, Frank. Just talk to him. Let him know you're not the enemy." She heard him take in a deep breath, release it. "Look, Frank. Aya, he... He lost his sister. She died in a terrorist explosion. He--"

"He blames himself."

Birman leaned back on her pillows, a faint smile spreading over her lips. Wry, amused. Trust Frank to always be the profiler. "Yes," she said. "He blames himself. He doesn't like working with people."

There was silence at the other end. Her clock beeped out two thirty and continued to beam a bright red shadow onto her wall and bedside lamp. She heard him sigh.

"I really do wish you had remained on the case, Birman."

* * *

The percolator hummed to itself in the corner, steam rising from the holes along the top. Catherine stepped around the tiny hotel kitchen slowly, careful not to bump against the window sill behind her and spill the coffee. A few paces away, she could hear Jordan reading aloud from the cereal box, Frank's voice correcting her gently as she stumbled over large words.

"Daddy," she asked, eyebrows scrounged in concentration as she studied the multi-coloured box. "Why can't the rabbit have any Trix? Isn't that racism?"

Catherine laughed as she set Frank's coffee before him. He shot her pleading look, a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. He reached out to pat Jordan's hand, Catherine tucking a lose curl behind her ear before she drew their little daughter on her lap, kissing her cheek. "It is racism, sweety. That's why you must make sure to give the rabbit some Trix when you see him, hm?" Jordan beamed and bounded off her mom's lap.

"All right! I hope we see him today. D'you think we'll see him today, daddy? There's no rabbit holes in New York. Does he live in Central Park?"

Frank picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder as he went. Jordan shrieked with laughter, the sound mingling with her father's as he dumped her on her hotel bed and tickled her sides. He might, Catherine heard him say, but you've got to get dressed before you can go see him. She heard Jordan scramble for the bathroom, still shrieking with laughter as Frank tickled her all the way to the door. He came back to the leaving room smiling, but slightly winded. He dropped onto his place at the breakfast table with a low grunt.

"Slept anything at all last night?"

He took a sip from his coffee, eyebrows shooting up in tired acknowledgment. Catherine stirred a packet of sugar into her coffee and smiled softly. "The case? You shouldn't let it get the best of you at 2.00 AM, Frank. It's not good for you."

Frank sighed. "Birman pulled out. She couldn't take it. I've been assigned a new partner."

"He doesn't like you?"

"Doesn't trust me. He's... been hurt. He doesn't want to be with anyone."

He set down his cup, watching as the liquid swirled within itself. His eyes looked up at him from a muted, faded brown mirror. He couldn't tell Catherine everything that formed and dissolved in his mind as he spoke about Birman, about Aya. Peter had sworn him to secrecy when he had told him about Weiss Kreuz. Birman had sworn him to secrecy long before that, the night she had officially left the FBI. They're a consultant firm, Frank, like Millennium. Peter's words. I guess you could say it's like the FBI... Birman's words. But the FBI doesn't erase your social security number, your finger prints, Birman. The FBI doesn't release a statement in your hometown of Tokyo, Japan, that you died on duty November 24th, 1993.

He looked up at Catherine. "It'll be fine, Catherine. We just need some time." He pushed himself up from the table, taking his cup with him. "I think our little humanitarian's done in the bathroom. We'd better get dressed, before she questions the moral standing of her parents."

Catherine smiled, stirring her spoon slowly in her coffee. She could hear Frank rinsing out his cup in the kitchen. Water against ceramic drowned out his sigh, the walls between them hiding the slump of his shoulders. She could see secrets in his eyes, hurting to spill out. Hurting him. She tried not to sigh. His arms had wrapped themselves around her shoulders, his lips pressing lightly against her neck before he padded away towards their bedroom and Jordan's voice. She heard him laugh, burying his secrets again. Pushing on. She could expect him to lie awake at night for many more nights.

* * *

Aya gripped the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the license plate halting and jerking in front of him. Traffic was crawling by again. He cursed under his breath. He always convinced himself to go out precisely at the same moment his clock proclaimed it was five thirty in the afternoon. Rush hour. Everyone on the street, clogging up the entire city. He hit the breaks and lowered the volume on the radio.

"Maybe we should have taken the subway," Birman muttered. He shot her an incredulous look.

"And ride around centimetres away from public rape?"

"Not a very pretty image, Aya _kun_. Eyes on the road."

He swerved to the left, annoyed at the fact that the halting, jerking license plate seemed to be going everywhere he was. Birman had dropped by his hotel room at around one. I need to speak to you, she'd said. He knew Yohji, the companion member Weiss had assigned to deal with the paperwork, would hound them all day if they stayed in the room, bleached blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, ears trained on everything they said as he pretended to watch static on TV. Aya had suggested they talk outside in the hall, and had decided to talk at the park when Yohji stepped outside to inspect the elevators. He took a deep breath and released it as the park came into view.

"Thank the gods," he murmured, noticing at the same time that Birman had murmured those exact words along with him.

* * *

Birman sat at the edge of a swing and watched as Aya took the one beside her. His shoulders slumped forward, his sideburns hanging over his lips. She could tell he knew what she wanted to say. She rocked gently in her swing and looked up at the sky.

"Yeah, it's about Frank."

Aya looked down at his feet against the sand. He shook a few grains off his boots. "I'm being as decent as I know how to be. You know I don't like partners."

"Neither does he."

"Then why are we working together?"

Birman remained silent. She could feel Aya's eyes on her. Heavy, searching. She understood what Frank meant. He seemed to be finding fault with her, with everything. It made her uncomfortable. "Both the police and the group he works for, Millennium, had assigned him. Takatori wanted us on the case as well. We're not in any position to tell the police, and especially not Millennium, to keep out of it. Not in this case."

"And you've worked with Frank Black before."

Birman looked at the ground. "Yes, I have. A long time ago. He was very close to becoming a member of Weiss. But, you know, Millennium approached him first. Besides, he had a wife, a kid. He couldn't chose to disappear like us, and Takatori didn't force the choice on him."

Aya stood up from the swing. He walked towards the merry go round, leaning against the bars. "I still don't like this." He gazed away, at a woman walking past with her two children. Brother and sister. He averted his eyes.

"You're scared, aren't you?"

She looked up abruptly. Aya was gazing at her with those steady, unflinching eyes, sizing her up again. Finding fault. Finding fault with everyone. She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You're scared. Of the murders. Of those faces. The girls. Aren't you? That's why I've been paired with the family man."

She stood up. The swing chains creaked behind her. They sounded too loud. Aya's eyes were fixed on her own. That's it, isn't it? He said, arms folding over his chest as his eyes became clouded. She averted her face and walked back towards the car.

"Look, Aya, I can pull you off. Put Yohji on the case. Or Omi, or anyone."

She passed his car, stepping onto the curve. She turned around to see him still leaning against the merry go round, eyes narrowing as he caught the anger in her voice. She felt foolish. Melodramatic. He was right, wasn't he? She didn't like to think about it. She wasn't like Takatori or Frank. It mattered to her. After a while, it mattered. Young girls. Murdered. Killed. Robbed of the damnable freedom she now possessed, the breath in her lungs. She thinned her lips and turned away again.

"Try to keep focused on the case, Aya, not on Frank. Think about those girls. If only for a while. Young girls..." She stopped, her head lowered as she gazed at the pavement without really seeing it. "Like your sister..."

Aya's head snapped up. He saw Birman walking away, slowly, almost daring him to react. He uncrossed his arms and frowned at her back. He realized he had bared his teeth. It embarrassed him. He drew his lips together and pressed them tight. Trust Birman to use the cheap psychology. He still hated Frank. Hated his presence. Hated his case. Those girls. They weren't his sister. None of them. He clenched his fists.

Then, slowly, he unclenched them. He leaned back against the merry go round. White clouds raced past above him in the wind. Going nowhere. Following Birman. Leaving him behind.

* * *

The computer screen hummed to itself. Three people, legs crossed and Peter wanted to know if anybody wanted some coffee. No answer. Well, I want some, he said. The other two men sat in silence, eyes trained on the glowing computer screen. Lavender eyes, washed out green eyes that required glasses in order to read the font ten words scrawling on the screen. Sixth girl. No closer to the truth. Frank rubbed the back of his head and sighed. Aya uncrossed his legs and stood up. He seemed to consider his words, turning them over in his tongue as he gazed at the walls, at the computer screen, at Frank eyeing him in silence.

"They're all middle class," he said at length. It sounded tired, like a guess. Half assed work. He could hear Birman's words. Think about those girls... His words hurt him.

"The killer has no connection to them," Frank murmured. "I don't think it matters that they're middle class. Not to him. He wants something else."

"I could care less about what he wants."

Aya dropped into his seat and rubbed at the back of his neck. The words had escaped before he had realized what he'd said. He could feel Frank's eyes on him, disapproving. Birman's words tickled at the back of his head. He averted his face. The room felt too small. Crowded. Nothing but him and Frank and a computer. It beeped to itself and turned its circuitry within its plastic body, droning in the back of his head. Sixth girl. A news report and photographs attached to an Email from Birman. He wanted to laugh. Frank was murmuring to himself, rumbling in the back of his throat.

"Social emptiness... society... messages... the killer feels impotent... I don't know. Dead girls... He didn't know them. He didn't know them..." He leaned forward, brows knitting together. "Aya, the killer doesn't know the girls. They're faceless. To someone. Not to the parents, or the friends. To someone else. Society. They're helpless. Like the average member of our society. Helpless to stop this..."

His voice faded to a whisper, his body slumping back into the seat. The light of recognition that had come into his eyes died out almost as soon as it had appeared, leaving him haggard and old. Grasping at anything. Something. Tangible reasons. He removed his glasses and rubbed his hands over his face. He wanted to see. He wanted to know why. He wanted everything to come to an end. He was so tired. So very tired.

"Now I know you two really do need coffee."

"I can't think when I drink coffee, Peter. You know that."

Peter placed his cup of coffee on the edge of the PC table and looked from Aya to Frank. "You two look stumped."

Aya looked away, arms folding over his chest. Frank gave the floor a grim look.

"This is random, Peter. The killer takes extra care in executing out the murder in a precise manner, the blows to the head, the broken spine. He takes pride in his methodology. But he has no connections to any of these girls. I can feel it. They're random victims. He kills to kill, and that's not leaving us much room to move in on him."

Aya unfolded his arms. "We can only wait till he strikes again."

Peter took a sip of his coffee. "And that's too late. No way we can place officers at every neighbourhood, and even if we could, he'd probably know about it. Maybe skip town." He set down his cup and looked across at Frank. The older man was looking at him intently, brows knitted together. Peter could tell that he thought assigning guards wasn't going to do them much good. He moved his gaze to the younger man. He sat looking at the computer screen, bright red hair pulsing in the dim light of the PC. His eyes were distant, turned within themselves. He murmured to himself, frowning as his words escaped his lips.

"No one would try to set a trap?"

Frank leaned forward in his chair. There was something in the tone of

Aya's voice. He threw a glance at Peter, saw his friend's eyebrows rise, a snap visible in his eyes. Frank's hands gripped the handles of his chair. The police had ruled out a trap last week. Too risky. He glanced across at Aya. An uncomfortable feeling was beginning to grow in the back of his head. An image in the back of his mind. A young girl. Young girls. The sky reaching down towards them as red exploded behind their eyes. The world spinning. No way of knowing. Helpless young girls. Silence over the phone. Silence. The sound of a heavy sigh, ripped apart, torn from her body. Aya had turned to look at him. Lavender eyes wide. Something snapped. And he knew.

* * *

Birman closed the door to her apartment and jiggled the lock. Good. Locked tight. She slipped her keys into her purse and made her way to street level. Her clock face read 5:08 p.m. It wouldn't be long before the sun would start to set, bathing the world in thick purple light. She walked quickly, the click of her heels following her as she turned the corners, made her way along curves and the crowded shopping district. 20th Street. Wasn't that what the headlines had said? Karoline Weissman from 20th Street, lived only a few blocks from raised subway tracks. She could hear it rumbling towards her, speeding past in a streak of silver and tinted dark windows. A young girl looked down at her. Hello Kitty backpack, blue bangs and glitter on her eyes. Birman smiled. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

She stopped before a housing complex. White, tall, trapezoidal against the darkening sky. She pulled a newspaper clipping from her purse and held it up against the building. Identical. She smiled. She could feel excitement and fear and apprehension travelling up her spine, leaving her cold and warm at the same time, setting her nerves on edge. Reaching down, she removed her heels, placed them inside her bag. She pulled out a pair of worn Mary Janes and slipped them on. She checked in her mirror and saw a face she hardly recognized. Dark hair pulled into a ponytail, no make-up, eyes bright and alert. She felt so young. So young. She replaced the mirror in her bag and took a deep breath.

Less than a mile to circle the building. Just circle the building. Nothing else. Frank said they bled to death from internal wounds. No blood, no evidence on the sidewalk. He took them back home. She glanced at her clock. 5.27 PM. She squared her shoulders. Just circle the building. Frank would understand. She hoped he was getting along well with Aya. She wanted them to trust each other. Trust was important. Vital.

* * *

Peter hit the breaks and cursed under his breath. The car skidded to a stop with a jolt, an out of town license plate looming too close for comfort. Aya gritted his teeth and glanced across at Frank. He didn't need to hear an answer. He stepped out quickly, slamming the door closed behind him as Peter's voice rose in protest. He heard Frank's gravel voice try to ease him down. A second car door slammed close, Peter's voice cut off.

"You're being rash, F--"

He heard Frank rushing to catch up. Laboured breathing. Aya glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Where's she headed?"

"Twentieth street. The sixth girl. She's expecting him to be there."

Aya pushed on. He could feel Frank falling behind, but his feet wouldn't stop. Something kept pulling him forward. Faster. Faster. Asphalt rumbling across his bones with every step. He felt the sharp pull of muscle and winced, but pushed on, breath becoming shallower with every step. It hurt to breathe, the world beginning to swim as he tore over the sidewalk, elbowing aside pedestrians, curses, shoves. He thought he heard Frank calling out to him. His voice was lost in a loud, sharp curse and a kick aimed at his feet. He dodged, pushed an old man out of his way. His hands gripped below his jacket. Cold steel. Urging him forward. Faster. Faster.

"Aya, damn it! Wait up!"

Frank could feel his breath as it was ripped from his lungs. It burned to draw a breath, and his side ached. The pain came and went in flashes of bright white. Clutching his side, he stopped, leaning against a display window. Bright neon yellow dresses paraded before his eyes. He shook his head. Aya was ahead of him, bright red streak disappearing between a sea of oblivious faces. Oblivious. Who was Birman to this people? She didn't even exist. He drew in a deep breath and pushed forward again. He could make it. For Birman. He had to make it. He looked around him and felt disorientation flooding in. Aya seemed to know his way around, but he could no longer see the boy. Cars, people, purple sky melting into darkness and red and green and neon signs melting into one. He reached out and grasped at someone. A hand. A young man with bright blue hair and a white bandanna.

"Hey, asshole! What's your problem, old man?!"

"Excuse me... Is this Twentieth Street?"

"Hell no. This here's Eighteenth. You've gotta go a couple'a blocks an' then right, old man."

He mumbled out a garbled thank you and ran forward again. A couple of

blocks. Just a couple of blocks. He looked around him as he ran, red and green and neon yellow and karaoke haze blinding him till he found what he was looking for. Nineteenth Street. A worn, graffitied sign. He was on he right track. He drew in several breaths and pushed on, footsteps ringing in his ears as he ran.

Birman. Birman. Birman.

* * *

There were footsteps. She could hear them now. Slow, steady. They had shadowed her from the apartment complex, turning into the next street with her. She thinned her lips and clutched her purse. Her feet wanted to quicken their pace, take her to safety, but she forced herself to slow down. She walked with a slight shuffle, striving to appear carefree. She could hear the footsteps behind her. She rounded a corner. They rounded a corner. They were getting closer.

She pressed her lips together, afraid to breathe. It was dark already. The street lamps cast watery orange shadows around her, her own shadow shooting up in front of her, stretching out towards the white buildings rising beyond her eyesight. She started as one lamp flickered and died out. She stood still, listening. Behind her, the footsteps came to a still as well. Silence hung between them, stretching out. Thinning out. She had to make a choice. She felt inside her purse and wrapped her fingers around the cloth wrapped gun she placed inside. She could feel the cold, hard steel bite against her skin. She wondered why it felt so alien, so detached. She could see herself, as if on television, standing on the curb, gripping the gun in both hands, turning to fire at her assailant.

Like a heroine in some movie. Unreal. Completely unreal.

* * *

Frank heard the shot and froze in his tracks. He heard gravel scatter in front of him, feet shooting off towards the right. Light, barely touching the ground. He ran towards them, his mind racing. He had a gun. He needed to pin him against some dead end. He needed a dead end. He needed Peter. Empty spaces spread out before his eyes and stretched out into high rise apartment buildings. Stark white, casting huge black shadows. The sound of footsteps came again, and he tore after them, hand reaching for the gun he had slipped into the holster Peter had flung at him. Might as well, he had mouthed. He knew Frank seldom used guns. Never killed.

He turned a corner and cocked the gun, a shadow appearing within his vision. "Hey!" He shouted. The figure stopped and jerked around to look at him. Bright red hair. Frank lowered the gun and muttered under his breath. "Great, I've caught my partner." Returning the gun to its holster, he walked towards Aya.

The younger man was out of breath. His chest rose and fell with every laboured breath. His lips thinned in defeat. Dead end.

"But the gun shot...?"

Aya shook his head. "That was me. Thought I'd heard something."

Frank cursed under his breath. Aya had moved away again, picking his way along the shadows. The older man followed him as silently as he could. They couldn't hear anything. No breaths. No voices. No shots. No screams.

Frank sighed and lowered his head. Birman wasn't out there. Birman and her heroics. Birman and her pity. He could see her as she sat in his living room in Seattle, paint cans strewn around the newspaper covered floor as he painted the walls a muted, canary yellow. How do you do it? she asked. How can you go back, over and over? It's shit, all of it. He dipped his brush into his can and didn't answer. It was too simple to give an answer. Detachment. Duty. He wasn't sure why he didn't just give it up, move Catherine and Jordan somewhere else, somewhere safe, away from Millennium and the FBI and the body counts and the bloodied asphalt and the screams. Birman smiled. What's that smile for? he said. She didn't answer, and he didn't want to admit to himself that he didn't really understand her.

* * *

Six girls. Six white sheets. She could see them, each one of them. Pulled away in a stretcher, pulled away to a morgue. Plastic white tags tied around their thumbs. Mr. and Ms. Weissman, can you identify your daughter...? Karoline. Yes, that's our Karoline. Our little Karoline. Our daughter. It tore at her. It knocked the breath out of her and forced her onto her knees. It laughed at her. Weak. Weak woman. Weak race. Always weak. Attack and kill and there's nothing you can do. Nothing. It brought tears to her eyes. She wanted to rip out of it. Rip out of her skin and step out. She wanted to step into Frank. Become Frank Black who profiled murders and not be afraid. No one would attack her. No one would hold her down and break her wrist, break her spine.

She bit her lip, tasted blood. Everything was blood now. Pounding in her head, running through her veins and emptying onto the street. She gripped the gun harder. Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. You've seen his face. His fucking smug face. White hair, slanted eyes. Genetic superiority. Because he could. Because he owed everything to his body, to the fact that he was him and he and male and she was just one and without a word to call her own, a word that wasn't also him. Fe_male_. Hu_man_. She gripped the gun harder and raised it up chest level. She could see him. Could see the clear blue eyes. What of it? Huh? What of it? Stupid bitch.

* * *

Shots rang out.

They hung, suspended, before the night rushed in to silence them. The subway screamed past behind them, a dog barking at the darkness, pulling at its chain.

Frank felt the earth give way beneath him, a curious lack of centre that propelled him forward. He was running. He didn't know if he was screaming or crying or laughing. He felt the wind beating at his face and his heart burning within him. He turned a corner, rough stone biting into his wrist. He felt the pain as if from far away, a dull itch at the end of his fingers. The asphalt rushed past beneath him.

Turn the corner. She's there. He could see her. Could see a face, heat. Flesh ripped away. Blood suspended before his vision and he could only see red and the realization that he had pulled the trigger.

"Birman!"

She looked up as he approached. She still held the gun in her hands, wrapped in cloth. She seemed stunned, her eyes turned inward as he rushed up to grasp her shoulders and shake her. Birman, come on! Come on! Her eyes roved around his face for a moment, putting voice and image and meaning together. He came into focus with a tear and a hand was shoving her towards a harsh orange light. Frank. Frank was shaking her, calling out to her. She grasped at his shoulders and dropped the gun. It clattered between them. Sharp. Alien.

"Frank... Oh God... his face, he... Oh God...! I couldn't... Frank..."

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. He covered her eyes and turned her face away. "Shh. Birman, shh. It's all right." The body lay in a heap beyond them. Faceless. A red disfigurement of pulpy, smoking flesh. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Birman's hair. "It's all right... it's all right."

Aya approached them silently. His hand released its grip on the handle of his gun. He felt it drop to his side. Birman lay crumpled in Frank's arms, sobbing and shivering. He could see the body, the blood that snaked out from beneath it. He forced himself to look at it till the image blurred and became meaningless. White hair, caked in blood. Young. Skinny. Jeans. Jean jacket. Fila brand T-shirt. He wanted to go up beside it and kick it. Place a bullet between the heart and spit on its faceless head.

He sighed and slid his gun into the holster Peter had given him. Frank was helping Birman to her feet, their shadows stretching and wavering in the orange light of the street lamps. Aya made no move towards them. He slid his hands into the cold, tight pockets of his pants and leaned back against an apartment wall. It wasn't his moment. He watched Frank rub Birman's hands and place his jackets over her shoulders and he knew that whatever he had to say would only be so many words that didn't need to be said.

It was their moment. Their words and their slow, exhausted footsteps, leaning against each other. The emptiness belonged to them tonight.

It was their world.

* * *

© August 16th-28th, 1999 Team Bonet. Weiss Kreuz is © 1997 Project Weiss and Koyasu Takehito. Millennium is © 1996 Chris Carter and FOX.


End file.
